


And the Devils Danced

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, Post-Devil May Cry 5, Suggestive Themes, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 20:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: There is plenty of baggage they both need to eventually sift through, and this much is certain when Dante fires up the old jukebox and chooses a record he had custom made back when he was still a teenager. It's a record that holds a small amount of handpicked songs, most of which Dante had danced to with their mother.





	And the Devils Danced

**Author's Note:**

> The tape deck in my old ass car kicked it so I can only listen to the Guardians of the Galaxy OST. It's some pretty good music at least and some of it kind of reminded me of Dante, which is why I cobbled together this little thing. I'll eventually post a full song list on my twitter or smth.
> 
> Oh, and, Beta? Don't know her.

Dante’s humming, much like the rest of him, is bone-achingly aggravating.

Worse yet is when he begins singing under his breath, half murmuring words to a song he only knows the half of. Granted, Vergil doesn’t know them any better, but at the very least he doesn’t give much thought to music. It’s one of the few things he misses from the human world, but he’s good at casting the thoughts away before they leave any sort of lasting impression.

“ _I fooled around and fell... in love,_ ” Dante mumbles, subtly swaying side to side as he walks, his eponymous sword resting casually over his shoulder as he does so.

Vergil considers cutting him down then and there, again, for the third time that week, but doesn’t. They have established a system that relies mostly on nonverbal communication and they are currently on their cool-down period, forcing several hours of non-conflictual interaction between them before swords are drawn once more. That doesn’t stop Vergil from gripping Yamato’s hilt, knuckles nearly bloodless.

“Stop that,” he snaps, quickening his pace to be as far ahead from his brother as possible, while keeping him within reach. “It’s annoying.”

“What is?” Dante feigns ignorance, his grimy little smirk giving him away. “Oh, come on, it’s a good song and you know it.”

“You’re out of tune, your pitch is off, and you’ve never been a good singer.”

“Ouch.”

“Besides,” Vergil continues, “what about the Underworld can possibly inspire you to sing?”

Dante shrugs his shoulders, casting their current surroundings a casual onceover. “Don’t know. It looks a lot different than it used to, though. You have anything to do with that?”

“Not enough screaming souls and lakes of fire for you?”

“You meet both those quotas.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dante catches up to Vergil and mock-punches him on the shoulder. “You know what? I bet you’d be less of a sourpuss if you listened to some sweet tunes more often. I know that usually helps me whenever I’m in a funk. Well, I mean, besides a good…” Dante pretends to grab something in front of him and repeatedly thrusts his hips with a grin.

Vergil rolls his eyes in disgust. “You’re appalling.”

“As if you’ve never done the dirty. You’re the one with a kid, for fuck’s sake.”

In all fairness, Vergil hardly remembers the events leading to Nero’s conception. There was a woman involved, perhaps some drinks, but that’s about all there is. No real connection considering he doesn’t think himself capable of such a thing. One time, in a bout of quiet contemplation, Vergil had wished there had been. Perhaps things would have ended up differently.

“To each their own,” Vergil says.

“Name a song. Any song.”

“No.”

“Come on, Verge.”

“I said no.”

“If you don’t, I’ll start singing again.”

For the umpteenth time that day, Vergil contemplates violating their already tumultuous deal. He briefly considers entertaining his brother just to shut him up, but truth of the matter is that he can’t really think of a song off the top of his head. It’s been so long since he’s even listened to something other than the unified chorus of demons heralding something or another.

Vergil tries to think back to a time when he did listen to music, and the memory hits him harder than Dante ever could. It rests like a dull throb in his chest and he wishes he could remove it, cast it away once again, but it’s there now, and it’s stuck in his head.

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a fair warning,” Dante begins, but immediately goes quiet when Vergil grumbles what few words he can remember of a song that sometimes drifted through the manor during their childhood days.

A beat of silence follows soon after and, true to his word, Dante doesn’t mutter another word.

* * *

For the first time in a very long time – or the first, full stop – Devil May Cry looks like an actual functioning agency rather than a rundown dump worthy of demolishment. Dante figures he has his brother to thank, given Vergil’s apparent penchant to clean when he’s bored. Regardless, the past couple of months have been an obvious improvement.

He supposes he should let the others know, eventually, that they’re both back from the Underworld, alive and in one piece, but Dante determines him and Vergil could use some time to get back into the swing things. Or, Dante, at least. It feels like Vergil needs to be taught, from scratch, how to be a functional human being. Dante doesn’t mind. It gives him something to work on that doesn’t involve getting his hands dirty. Impaled, maybe. But that’s a given on any day at any time.

Aside from the cleanliness, the constant presence of someone else is new. He’s used to the sudden dropping in of Lady and Trish on the odd occasion, where they crash for a couple of days before being on their merry way. Even Nero will spend a couple of nights at the agency between jobs. But this is different. Every morning when Dante steps out of his room and leans against the railing, he sees Vergil doing something or another before he’s quietly greeted. Either his nose is stuck in a book or he’s rearranging the odd assortment of weapons and trophies on the walls.

It’s as baffling as it is endearing, and Dante can’t help but wonder how life would have been had the two of them stuck together and run this place from the get-go. They’d likely be far more legendary than Dante already is, what with Vergil’s wicked skills and booksmarts.

He’s about to call out for his brother’s attention, but the melodic humming gives him pause. Dante can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, or the slight shifting of something in his chest when he recognizes the song Vergil is humming to. The chest thing might actually just be his stomach considering he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but then he remembers he doesn’t necessarily have to eat to begin with.

“I own that song,” Dante says, scratching his chin. “Had no idea you were familiar with it.”

Vergil continues his mission of sorting out the books haphazardly stacked by the storage room door. He stops humming but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the statement.

Dante descends the stairs and makes a beeline for the jukebox. It takes him a couple of tries but a good kick does the trick at bringing it back to life. He sifts through his extensive collection of records until he finds the one he’s looking forward and hesitates. It’s been decades since he’s last played this particular one. He debates whether or not Vergil will appreciate it, or if he’ll just reinforce the walls Dante is so desperately trying to climb over.

He hits the button and watches the machine work. The speaker crackles and the album scratches until it catches up with itself, inundating the space around them with the hard sound of a bass and an upbeat tambourine.

Dante’s fingers tap along to the beat against the glass, his foot eventually following suit as he’s violently thrown back to the age of seven.

_He sits on the window seat of his father’s study, legs swaying, laughing as his mother dances across the floor with a hand over her chest, her golden hair catching the abundant sunlight of that Wednesday afternoon. She sings along to the song, playfully poking at Dante before retreating into a graceful spin._

The knot in his throat has become a constant companion since seeing Vergil again after two decades of believing him to be dead, but this time, it’s unbearable. The back of his eyeballs burn, but Dante says nothing about it. Instead, he casts Vergil a brief glance.

Vergil has stopped altogether where he kneels on the floor, a closed book ignored on his lap. He stares unblinkingly at a random spot in front of him, mouth parted in what’s either disbelief or unsurmountable grief.

Dante wonders what kind of memories this brings back for him.

“ _…to cherish and care for you…_ ” Vergil mouths silently, his hands fisting around the worn edges of the book.

They both remain where they are as the song plays out. Even when it ends and the next track begins, neither wants to break the bittersweet air that has settled across the office.

“This is Mother’s collection,” Vergil says, refusing to look at Dante. “Father hated it.”

“Father was wrapped around Mother’s finger,” Dante says as he shakes his head, “he was just the bad cop to her good cop. Don’t know why he was always so obsessed with raising us like stuck-up brats. I feel like Mother tried her best to be a counterbalance.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I saw them dancing to this song once. He couldn’t dance to save his life.”

Vergil makes this muted little sound that almost sounds like a laugh, and Dante smiles.

“She always asked where you were when I asked her to play her music,” Dante continues, hesitantly. “Always went on about how music tied people together like a shared heartbeat. Never understood what she meant by that.” _Until now_ goes unsaid.

“Most of our belongings were destroyed in the fire,” Vergil says.

Dante pushes away from the jukebox, gently swaying to the current song. “I had this one costume made.” He doesn’t mention how this is only the second time he’s ever played the record, given how overwhelmed he felt the first time he listened to it back in his twenties.

Finally released from his stupor, Vergil picks up the books and places them on the bookshelf. He gets to his feet and moves across the room in search of any he might have missed.

They move around each other and Dante is overwhelmingly compelled to grab Vergil by the elbow, pull him into a little twirl for the sake of a laugh, but ultimately decides against it. Though he may not show it, Dante can see the bleeding wound Vergil is desperately trying to staunch deep within him. Dante had forgotten how easy it actually is to read Vergil. Maybe it’s a twin thing. Maybe Vergil is unconsciously allowing himself to be softer, more vulnerable, now that they’re in the safety of Dante’s home.

“I can lend you some clothes, you know,” Dante says, plopping down on the couch. “That vest looks a little stiff to be considered casual wear.”

“My vest is fine,” Vergil replies as the song changes again, this time to a much slower one.

 _At last – the skies above are blue,_ the singer belts out in a lovestruck way that has Dante sucking in a breath. His father had enjoyed this one, he remembers. But most importantly, Vergil begins to sway along to the rhythm, albeit minuscule.

Dante can’t help but stare, a different kind of hunger taking hold of him. He vaguely remembers the last time he felt this way towards Vergil, how he had viciously crushed that twinge of unholy desire out of fear and shame, and eventually out of anger and hatred.

Without the coat, Vergil’s attire is sinfully alluring. It fits him like a second skin, hugging curves and accentuating the broader bits of him, exposing his arms. Dante knows it’s made with practicality in mind, to allow for better movement and flexibility, but damn if it isn’t hot as hell.

Vergil stops his inspection of the book in hand, apparently catching himself. “I recall this song,” he says, moving over to the desk and putting down the book with a look akin to thinly veiled amazement on his face. “In fact, I recall dancing to it as well. With Father.”

Dante blinks in surprise. “You’re serious.”

“He…” Vergil begins but fails to say anything else. His eyebrows furrow and he looks about to expand on the subject, but eventually doesn’t for reasons Dante can only just assume. “Yes,” is all he says.

There is a beat of still silence between them as the song dies out and another begins, this one far more upbeat as the band delivers a catchy beat Dante had adored as a kid. His foot taps along to it, then his shoulders sway, and then he’s bopping his head as he begins to sing along. This song he knows by heart.

Dante pushes himself off the couch, snapping his fingers to the rhythm as he spins around on his heels, letting the music move him in ways he hasn’t allowed it to in ages. “ _Can’t take my eyes off you,_ ” he sings, honing in on Vergil with a wicked grin.

“Absolutely not,” Vergil warns, picking up on his brother’s intention and backing away from him. “Dante.”

“Come on, Verge. When’s the last time we danced?”

“Never, if my memory serves.”

“Exactly! No better time to fix that.” Dante takes two skipping steps and holds out a hand for Vergil to take. He doesn’t. With a shrug, Dante turns away and slides across the floor, breaking out into his own little dance number.

Vergil watches him, shaking his head with something akin to secondhand embarrassment.

Dante claps his hands to the rhythm. “ _I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright – I need you, baby!_ ”

“You absolute buffoon,” Vergil quips.

“ _Trust in me when I say, ‘oh, pretty baby’._ ”

Vergil is about to make yet another snippy remark but Dante is faster, grabbing him by the elbow and yanking him against his chest, tightening his arms around his older brother and pulling in for a tight spin. Dante quickly adjusts their positions before Vergil can react, taking his hand and locking his arm in a vice grip around Vergil’s waist.

“Let go of me!”

“You could’a freed yourself if you wanted to,” Dante says around a laugh, gracelessly dipping Vergil before pulling him against his body again. “Or stabbed me, but here you are.”

Vergil glares icily at him, but he doesn’t try to pull away. Instead, he allows Dante to guide him across the floor cluttered with neglected books. “Your footwork is terrible,” he mutters.

“Fine. You lead, then.”

Vergil takes over, much to Dante’s surprise and unmasked delight.

The two of them dance across the agency in perfect tandem, an equal give and take as Dante laughs, loud and free and with absolute glee. He had forgotten, it would seem, what it feels like to be well and truly _happy_. Despite the sourly look on Vergil’s face, Dante’s chest feels ready to burst with emotions he’s long since thought deceased within him.

To have his brother here, alive, real, safe, indulging him in childishly silly things such as dancing to music their parents listened to on sunny afternoons when the world was bright and joyful, when there was nothing to worry about other than homework or petty squabbles over who was taller. Dante basks in that sublime feeling of adoration, of _love_ , for what he once had, for what he now _has_.

The phone rings, instantly breaking the surreal atmosphere that had fallen between them.

Dante glares at nothing in particular before moving away from Vergil, making for the jukebox to turn it off. The damn thing hasn’t rang once in the weeks since their return, and he decides on declining any job offer on the other end, regardless of the pay. Just to be petty for the interruption.

“Devil May Cry.”

Dante whips around at the sound of Vergil answering the phone, forgetting all about the music.

Vergil leans against the desk, legs crossed at the ankles and his free hand tucked under the arm holding up the phone. He looks mundanely at ease, like he was made to belong to this scene. Dante stares at him before cracking a lopsided smile.

Maybe, just maybe, they’ll be able to run the shop together after all.

* * *

Never has the agency been filled with so much life, and Dante wonders if that’s just his state of mind talking.

The music is loud. Laughter bounces off the walls, making it feel like a celebration. After the initial one-sided shouting match initiated by Nero that ended with the kid launching himself against Dante in a soul-crushing hug, the evening devolves into more of that same sweet mood that is almost cloying to the senses.

Lady and Trish insist on bullying Dante by nagging at him about bills when the two of them had clearly been the ones to have cashed in on the Red Grave City stint. Lady, particularly, gives him grief over destroying her brand new Kalina Ann, claiming she doesn’t have the funds to pay Nico for another one. Trish just stands by and agrees with her.

Towards the back of the front office, Morrison is getting his ear talked off by an overly excited Patty. Patty, who probably shouldn’t be here given the amounts of alcohol being passed around, but she diligently ignores it in favor of trying to get Trish’s attention for something or another when Morrison begins to bore her.

Nero and Nico fiddle with the jukebox, going through the albums and deeming each track either tacky, too old, or just not upbeat enough for the atmosphere.

Dante moves through the crowd like a ghost, disbelieving but taking in the positive vibes that pulse and vibrate around him. It’s nearly palpable, the contentment that comes from everyone gathered in one place without a care in the world. They’ll worry about tomorrow when the sun rises, and word gets out that Devil May Cry is back in business. Until then, they will party with endless booze, pizza, dancing, and whatever that smell is that has Nico hollering over the collection of voices.

Sneaking a couple slices of pizza on a plate and slipping out the window, Dante climbs the fire escape in search of the single person missing from the shindig.

He finds Vergil leaning against the rusted railing on the roof. The full moon casts its glow across his form in such a way that makes him look ethereal. Dante doesn’t like it. He much prefers having a solid Vergil, one he can touch and bicker with; one that won’t vanish the moment the moon hides behind the clouds.

“Brought some food,” Dante announces, jumping over the railing and setting the plate down on the lone beach chair that has seen better days. Even up here he can still hear the boom of the bass and raucous laughter. “You hungry?”

Vergil shakes his head. “I never am.”

“You never sleep, either.” Dante joins him, keeping a respectable distance between them. “This isn’t the Underworld. You’ll eventually have to.”

“I’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

“Suit yourself. My bed’s big enough for two,” Dante keeps his words even, nonchalant, “if you’re ever interested in an actual snooze.”

“Your offer is appreciated,” Vergil says.

He doesn’t look away from whatever he’s staring at in the distance, and it only takes Dante a moment to connect the dots. Unsure of what to say, or how to even broach the subject, Dante just stands there and basks in his brother’s presence. 

Today has felt monumental, and Dante wonders how often these soft moments will occur.

The last time they stood together in this general vicinity, they had been young and filled with violent animosity towards each other. Dante had taunted Vergil as he made his way down the ruined street, sensing his presence atop the demon tower he had erected. The same tower Dante had lost him to.

There is so much to talk about. So much to wade through with the risk of getting muddied, getting violent, and neither knows where to begin. Despite the seemingly average and domestic life they have fallen into since their return, the farce is evident in the way Vergil always looks over his shoulder when they’re in the same room. Regrettably, but self-aware of it, Dante always makes certain his guns are within reach.

“Quite the welcoming committee,” Vergil says, monotone. “No need to miss out on my behalf.”

“Who said I’m here because of you? I just needed some fresh air,” Dante says with a scoff. “Don’t know what the fuck Nico is smoking but it’s bugging me.” He sniffs and scratches the edge of his nose. “You should give it a whirl, though.”

“More than half of the people in that room want me dead, Dante.”

“Nero doesn’t.” Dante shrugs. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Vergil goes quiet again, eyes unfocused as he sinks himself into thoughts Dante can’t begin to fathom. He does realize, however, that Vergil idly wrings his fingers together, tugging and flexing them, in a way that almost looks like a nervous tick. It’s so painfully human that Dante can’t help but smile to himself, an ache settling in his chest at the knowledge that Vergil, however subconsciously, is slowly letting go of that twisted obsession to seek an ultimate existence of demonic power.

Dante shifts his position so that he’s leaning sideways on the railing, resting his weight on one elbow to better admire Vergil in his pensive state. He’s wearing his coat this time and Dante mourns being able to admire his toned arms — arms he avidly wants to feel wrapped around him again. Be it in the form of a dance, or someway far less chaste.

“You think you’ll be able to make this place home?” Dante asks, surprising even himself with his candidness. “There’s a lot tied to this town. And the mere idea of not being constantly on the move—”

“Do not assume to know my thoughts,” Vergil snaps, turning to Dante with eyes sharp enough to cut.

“I’m not assuming anything,” Dante throws right back, straightening up. “Sue me for trying to be fucking supportive here.”

“I don’t need you to be. I don’t _want_ you to be.”

“Quit lying to yourself.”

“This isn’t my home,” Vergil says slowly, tone dripping with venom Dante refuses to take seriously. “It will never be, regardless of how hard you try to make it so.”

Dante pushes off the railing with enough force to nearly buckle it. “You’re right,” he says, making Vergil stumble on whatever retort he had readied. “I can’t make it be because it’s all on _you_. It isn’t my job to serve the world to you on a silver platter. If you were able to do what you’ve done, alone, running on might alone, what’s stopping you from achieving this other than your stupid fucking pride?” Dante closes the space between them, either out of anger or need for Vergil to understand, he isn’t sure. “It doesn’t matter if these people want you dead or not, because I don’t. I don’t want you dead, Vergil. You aren’t _alone_ , ‘cause I’m right fucking here. And if I have to cut down every single demon in the Underworld to get to you, then god fucking help me, I _will_.”

“Says the person who just insisted their job wasn’t to serve me the world,” Vergil says, but the remark is devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

“I’m tired.” Dante holds up his hands in surrender, uncaring of what his brother might think of him at this point. “Too old for this shit,” he mutters as he walks over to the chair. He carelessly casts the pizza aside and lets his body heavily crash into it, stretching out his legs and arching his back.

There is no telling what it will take to get Vergil to realize that he has a family, that it may not be as ideal and attainable as what they used to have as children, but a family, nonetheless. Dante wants to grab his shoulders and shake sense into him, tell him that there is no need for the armor he’s crafted for himself over the years. He wants to assuage Vergil’s fears of losing who he is, again, by making him understand that there’s more to his existence than living life cutthroat and cold and untouchable.

“What will it take to make you understand, brother?” Dante says, adjusting his posture so that he’s resting his elbows on his knees. “I love you.”

With the words out there, Dante feels a weight lift off his shoulders. He’s lingered on them for so long now, ever since he first learned that Vergil survived the destruction of their childhood home. They sat perched on the tip of his tongue, even when their swords were the ones who held deadly conversations. At the very least, even if nothing comes from this, Dante will finally be at peace with himself knowing that he’s told his brother that he loves him. And he does. Dante loves Vergil most dearly, regardless of the endless layers of ice and stone. Buried somewhere deep inside, he knows, is the little boy he shared a pillow with when the lightning storms outside of their window became too loud.

Vergil is still Vergil. Despite corruption, death, and resurrection. At the core of it all, Dante would put down his life for him. All he needs do is ask.

It’s a terrifying truth. As inescapable as his need to breathe.

“Foolish brother of mine,” Vergil says, but the words are gentle, tangled in the softest of breaths as he graciously gets on his knees before Dante to better look at his face. Cool fingers reach up to touch Dante’s jaw and they linger there, a touch that speaks of a devotion that robs the oxygen right out of Dante’s lungs. “Perhaps one day we will get past this.”

“I look forward to that time.” Dante takes hold of Vergil’s wrist and angles his head to press a featherlight kiss to his fingertips. “Until then, let’s keep impalement to a minimum. I don’t think I can afford another coat.”

Vergil hums in what sounds like agreement. “No promises.” He presses their foreheads together in an impressive display of affection. “Unless you’re strictly referring to weapons.”

It takes Dante a moment, but when the meaning sinks in he can’t help the smug smirk that Vergil almost hits him for. “Jackpot.”

“Don’t get cocky now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Vergil bumps their noses together as he gets back on his feet, brushing dirt and other miscellaneous things off his pants. “I’ve changed my mind,” he announces, adjusting his coat and looking at Dante over his shoulder with a look that borders on salacious. “A bed does sound appealing.”

A laugh bubbles in his chest but he curbs it in favor of inspecting Vergil. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I, too, am tired.”

It’s a simple answer to a loaded question, Then again, how simple can it truly be when Vergil has just admitted weakness. “That all?”

Vergil sighs, turning away from Dante to fondly gaze up at the moon. “Never did I not want you by my side, little brother. At the time, it seemed like an impossibility far greater than attaining power absolute. Yet, here you are.” He pauses for a moment then adds, “ _If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise._ Don’t keep me waiting.”

With that said, Vergil takes his leave in the opposite direction of the fire escape, towards the door connecting a stairway directly to Dante’s bedroom.

Dante remains seated, stunned and more than a little horny. Baby steps, he figures. If he plays his cards right and can keep everyone from killing each other long enough to have grown-up conversations, he may be able to salvage this wreck of a family. Their family. Broken and dysfunctional, but theirs.

With a lazy sigh, Dante leans back further into the rickety old chair and rests his hands behind his head. He watches the moon cast its silvery light over the rooftops of the residential area, and for once he sees no shadows lurking in the darker corners. They’re all together, under the same roof, and it’s more than he could have ever wanted in his miserable life.

The door behind him opens again. “Your shower doesn’t seem to be working,” Vergil announces, mildly annoyed.

“Goddammit.” He knew he was forgetting something. Dante gets up and debates whether or not requesting Lady cover the water bill since he’s managed to at least keep the power on. But that will have to wait until tomorrow. “Guess we’re gonna musk it up even more in there. Don’t worry, the bed sheets can handle it.”

Dante swiftly sidesteps whatever it is Vergil throws at his head, and laughs.

He joins Vergil inside, shutting the door behind him and surrendering himself, with much enthusiasm, into his brother’s waiting arms.

Let the music continue to play, whatever it may be, shaking the frames and making the floor vibrate beneath their feet. Dante and Vergil will dance to their own tune, at their own pace, for whoever long it may take.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on **[TWITTER](https://twitter.com/shotgunsinlace)** or **[TUMBLR](https://spardaliciously.tumblr.com/)**!


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